I dreamt, a book..
torn and dusty..
a way written,
a way empty..
perhaps, was alive..
‘Words’ in it, screams
but not as it seems..
they ask, they bleed..
they hurt, they cry..
but never they lie,
they are not just the words,
trapped in the wood..
not ’bout the crowd
or ’bout the lonelihood..
words from you,
and then ’bout..
those thirsty swollen eyes..
things were written,
imbrued with sobs,
scared, tired and bitten..
by each discrete names,
were carved faces..
embossed to their frames
tattered on other pages..
solemnly.. folded were,
few edges..
I’ve tried to unfold..
wondering who read it, before ?
but then no longer
could hold..
was awaken.. by the pair of
bleeding eyes..

GOD ! was that a dream,
why could I still hear the scream ?
who were those eyes ?
who has folded, those pages ?
why were, familiar..
those faces ?